Chapter 31 Scooby-Doo Adventures
Chapter thirty-one
Scooby-Doo Adventures
Nyomi
One of Kenji’s Personal Scales could be a spy—Hina, Mami, Yuki.
Maybe two.
Maybe all three.
And I was supposed to figure out which.
Tonight.
On top of that, there was a good chance that Kenji’s Personal Scales were working with others. Kenji described it as a snake’s nest.
A faint, wrong kind of chill rolled along the back of my neck—like something cold and slick had just traced my spine with the tip of a tongue. My body reacted before my logic could catch up.
Skin tightening.
Breath stuttering.
Palms going damp.
It felt like phantom scales brushed my ankles, curling lightly, testing the air around me.
None of it was real, but my nerves didn’t care.
My imagination had teeth tonight.
Then an image immediately hit my mind. It was a massive nest, pungent and musky, and full of a writhing mass of jumbled, coiled bodies, tangled together in a knot and covered in scales. The flicker of forked tongues could be seen as they slithered and hissed.
If Kenji was right about this being a nest of snakes, then this could end up being a puzzle of ever-shifting pieces. And somehow, I would have to assess and unravel their twisted intentions.
Fuck. I hope I can do this.
My stomach dropped in a slow, sick roll.
I walked up to Hiro and his twin wolves—Yuki and Aki and a crazy realization hit me first.
“Wait a minute.” I slowed my steps. "One of Kenji's Personal Scales is named Yuki."
Then, I looked up at the twin. "And you're Yuki too."
He nodded. "Yes."
"Is that a common name in Japan?"
Aki spoke for him, "It is very common.”
Yuki nodded again, “But, it has different meanings depending on the kanji used."
“Oh.”
"Mine means snow." He shrugged. "My full name is Yukihiro, but most call me Yuki."
“And so. . .the Scale Yuki’s name has a different kanji?”
Hiro jumped in, “Yes. Which is why her name means happiness. Good fortune. Same sound, different characters, different meaning."
I made a mental note of this. “Got it.”
Hiro tilted his head slightly. "In America, you have similar names. Right? I know a lot of American Michaels."
“Facts.” I held up one finger. "But just so we aren’t confused this evening, I may say Scale Yuki."
Hiro shrugged those muscular shoulders. “Sounds good. . .sis.”
For a split second, I swore something brushed the side of my calf. I jerked and looked down.
Hiro checked too. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
It must have been just my nerves. But the fear of the snakes felt too deliberate, too targeted, like the nest already knew I was coming and had started trying to touch me.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Then, let’s go, sis.”
We headed off, and I checked them out.
All three of them were big.
Not just tall—big. Black shirts stretched over broad shoulders. Gun holsters on the side. Veins along muscled forearms.
They looked like a very pretty death sentence as their long strides ate up the polished marble floor like men built for war.
I was bracketed between them, Hiro on my right, Aki a step ahead, Yuki slightly behind. If anyone looked down this hall, they’d see a small Black woman moving in the middle of three very dangerous men who could break necks faster than most people could unlock their phones.
And somehow, it was comforting and terrifying all at once.
The sound of slithering and hiding filled my ears, even though no snakes were near me.
My nerves flickered, but something inside me settled at the same time. . .that little mental switch I’d had since childhood. The one that clicked on whenever life got too heavy or too loud.
My grandma called it my Scooby-Doo mode.
She wasn’t wrong either.
It sounded silly, but it always worked to help me calmly solve a problem.
Even though my mother had offered to get my grandma cable TV, which would have allowed me to watch my favorite shows on Nickelodeon, Grandma had stubbornly refused, forcing me to watch her basic local channels.
That meant Scooby-Doo reruns on summer Saturday mornings.
Her living room always smelled like cocoa butter and Pine-Sol.
The buzzing TV’s glow hit the plastic-covered sofa just right, like it belonged there with the sunlight. I’d pour way too many Frosted Flakes into one of Grandma’s plastic mixing bowls, rush into the living room, place a Capri Sun on the side, and sit cross-legged on the floor.
Once the show came on, I’d be loudly crunching the whole time until the theme song finished.
Eventually, Grandma would show up with her cup of coffee, her housecoat would swish past as her slippers tapped on tile.
She’d sit on the couch behind me, mumbling things to the TV, calling Fred, ‘that sneaky fool.’ She was convinced he had a thing for Daphne.
Meanwhile, she always chuckled at Shaggy and Scooby’s crazy detours.
At least three times, she would complain that there should be a black girl with the Mystery Team, and then start to point out how Velma was probably a quarter Black.
“Yeah. She got some African DNA. Look at that hair and those hips. That’s from the Motherland no matter how much her people probably tried to hide it. Velma is Black.”
The commercial breaks were just long enough for bathroom runs or sneaking more cereal into the bowl.
Those episodes were the first mysteries I ever solved, sitting cross-legged on the floor and calling out clues before the gang figured them out. It was the kind of childhood safety that stuck to the ribs, even decades later, long after life moved into harder territory.
Nobody ever bled.
Nobody stayed lost.
Nothing was unsolvable.
And when the mask finally came off, the villain always said something dumb like "I would've gotten away with it if not for. . ." and the world snapped back into balance.
The memory faded as my shoe hit marble instead of tile, and the scent shifted from Pine-Sol to sandalwood.
But the comfort stayed.
That old armor, wrapped in nostalgia and summer Saturday morning certainty, settled around my shoulders like Grandma's housecoat.
Scooby-Doo mode.
A coping mechanism that had carried me this far.
A reminder that some mysteries could still be solved.
I exhaled slowly, matching my breathing to the quiet thunder of Hiro and the twins moving next to me.
Hiro glanced down at me then, and from the side his profile was chiseled, yet elegant. “Are you ready?”
My heartbeat thudded in a strange rhythm—anxious at the edges, steady in the center. “I’m ready.”
A shiver crawled across my shoulders, thin and cold, like the flick of a serpent’s tail grazing skin. Every instinct screamed that danger was close—coiled, waiting, patiently deadly.
Hiro shifted slightly inward, and his arm brushed mine.
Instantly, the sensation faded.
Or retreated.
It was hard to tell.
I blew out my breath. “We’re on a Scooby-Doo mission. Let’s go.”
A muscle jumped in Hiro’s cheek. “Scooby. . .what?”
The twins snickered.
I widened my eyes. “Oh, don’t tell me Japan deprived you of this American cartoon masterpiece.”
Aki looked at me. “We have many masterpieces of our own.”
“None of them start with Scooby.” Yuki chuckled.
We turned down the main corridor, our footsteps echoing softly.
The mansion was quieter on this side—late enough that most people were off work and probably spending time in their rooms.
The overhead lights cast a warm glow over the lacquered wood and framed art.
Somewhere far off, a clock chimed the hour.
“Okay,” I cleared my throat. “Scooby-Doo is a cartoon about a group of teenagers and their Great Dane. They drive around in a van, solve mysteries, and unmask monsters that are always secretly rich old white men.”
The twins exchanged confused glances—silent communication probably honed from years of fighting side by side. Whatever passed between them made Aki’s mouth twitch and Yuki’s eyes narrow in thought.
They must think I’m absolutely crazy.
Hiro’s mouth tugged at the corner. “I think I have heard of this. The dog talks?”
“Exactly.” I pointed at him. “Scooby-Doo talks. He eats. He panics. He and his best friend, Shaggy are always high.”
Hiro gave me a sidelong look. “High?”
“Yeah.” I got a bit excited. “It’s never said out loud, but come on. Shaggy and Scooby are constantly hungry, constantly paranoid, and constantly sneaking off to eat. The fanbase decided years ago that Shaggy and Scooby are stoners.”
Aki slowed just enough to turn his head. “They smoke marijuana?”
Yuki quirked his brows. “And solve crimes?”
“Again, they don’t smoke in the cartoon, but it’s. . .hypothesized,” I confirmed. “But, they do solve crimes. . .kind of. . .if they accidentally trip over clues between sandwiches.”
We reached the intersection where the main hall split. Hiro steered us left with a small tilt of his head, the twins adjusting in perfect sync, their boots whisper-quiet against the floor.
“So,” I continued, “there are five of them and the dog. Daphne—she’s pretty, stylish, kind of the face of the operation.
Velma—she’s the brain, the nerd with the glasses who actually solves all the cases.
Fred—he’s the blond leader, drives the van and says things like ‘let’s split up, gang.
’ Then you’ve got Shaggy and Scooby, aka Weed-Head and Weed-Dog, relentless snack machines. ”
“I see,” Hiro watched me in utter fascination. “And how does this moment qualify as a Scooby-Doo adventure?”
“It’s a mystery and I’m Velma.” I touched my chest. “Obviously. I’m expected to do some of the investigative work.”
The twins both nodded, as if this was already law.
“Accepted,” Aki said.
“Undisputed,” Yuki twin agreed.
Hiro chuckled.
I think I was starting to not only differentiate the twins, but also begin to understand them a bit more.
Aki typically always talked first—quick, easy confidence, the kind of guy who answered questions before anyone else even processed them.
Yuki, on the other hand, measured words like they cost money.
You could see him running silent calculus behind his eyes before he opened his mouth.
They’re such an interesting pair. Hiro is lucky to have them around.
I put my attention on Hiro and pointed. “By the way, you’re Fred since you’re in charge.”
He stopped mid-stride, turned his head, and gave me a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated fruit. “Absolutely not.”
“What?”
“I’m not Fred. Assign me someone else.”
I chuckled. “You’re literally the blond leader. You give orders. People listen. That’s Fred energy.”
“No. I refuse.” Hiro returned to walking. “I’m Daphne.”
“Wow.” I blinked.
“I’m the pretty one.”
The twins nodded in agreement.
Another chuckle left me.
The twins slowed so we were briefly all in line.
“Then who are we,” Aki gestured to him and his brother.
Yuki shook his head. “Not Fred either.”
Aki touched two fingers to his jaw, which must have meant that he was thinking.
Yuki had his own thing. As he walked, he tapped his thumb against his thigh as if he were keeping time to a rhythm only he could hear.
Two brothers.
Two minds.
Yet, always syncing up in their own weird twin connection.
Hiro grabbed my attention. “The twins are Shaggy and Scooby. You two absolutely enjoy being high and you are addicted to snacks.”
The twins looked at each other.
Aki smirked. “We do like snacks.”
“Lots of them.” Yuki winked.
“But I prefer savory,” Aki added.
Yuki shot him a side glare. “You say that, but you always steal my sweet things first.”
Aki smirked. “Only because you hide them.”
Yuki frowned. “Because you eat everything not nailed down.”
Hiro chuckled, and the few harsh lines in his expression eased a little, before returning. For a second, I think I had an image of what he must’ve looked like before the Fox killed Nura.
We moved in silence for another thirty feet, the corridor stretching long and empty ahead of us. Soon, we reached the end of the first hallway and stopped at the elevator.
Hiro hit the call button.
Those unsettling sounds returned to me—slithering, hissing, and rattling.
The Mystery Team needs to find the snakes in a nest.
I shivered.
A pair of maids came from the opposite end of the corridor. They wore crisp uniforms, hair tied back neatly, eyes clear.
Instantly, I left the fun of Scooby-Doo talk and returned to Hunting mode, assessing each one and trying to figure out if they gave off spy energy.
One of the maids carried a basket of neatly folded towels.
The other held a tablet tucked against her chest.
They saw Hiro first and straightened instinctively, bowing with deep respect.
Their gazes slid to me then—curious, but without malice. They bowed again, a fraction lower.
I gave them both warm smiles. “Good evening.”
As they walked past us, I studied their faces, their hands, the way their shoulders sat.
There was no tension.
No furtive glances.
No flicker of fear or guilt.
Just tired feet, quiet competence, and that peculiar calm I’d noticed in the staff who’d been with the Dragon’s family for years.
If there is a snake hiding in this household, it isn’t in these two. They’re clear.
But would the other staff members be just as easy to assess?
I prayed the answer was yes.
Because, if I failed, someone died.
And if I succeeded, someone still died.